by R. L. King
It was quite a bit longer than a minute—they were pulling into the Obsidian’s parking lot by the time he came back on the line. “Okay. The body’s still in the morgue at the coroner’s office. I got you permission to take a look, but you won’t be able to stay long. They’re crazy busy over there. It’ll have to do.”
“Shouldn’t need long,” Verity said. “Thanks, Sergeant.”
The Las Vegas branch of the Clark County Coroner’s Office was a dusty, low-slung building a couple blocks from the police headquarters. Verity got the impression of efficient activity as she and Jason entered the lobby. Surprisingly, a general scan with magical sight revealed tension and an overall feel of unease, but nothing more intense. She supposed it made sense—by the time victims got here, most of the strong emotional energy around them had been left wherever they’d died.
When Jason identified himself and explained why they were there, they were handed off to a stocky, serious young man named Luis. “Please come with me,” he said.
He took them down an institutional-beige hallway and through one of the many doors lining it. “I won’t be able to spare much time,” he said apologetically. “We’re really busy around here.”
“That’s okay,” Jason said. “We appreciate your time.”
Verity stared. This place didn’t look anything like the coroner’s offices she’d seen on those crime-scene investigation TV shows, where everything was stainless steel, sleek, and barely illuminated by stylish overhead track lighting. She hadn’t expected it to, of course, but she likewise hadn’t expected it to be this…boring. The large, beige room was bathed by harsh fluorescents that drove away any hint of a shadow, and buzzed with activity as white-clad techs, attendants, and coroners moved around performing their duties. One full wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling racks, almost all of which contained sheet-wrapped bodies with tags attached to their toes. “I thought there’d be drawers,” she murmured under her breath to Jason.
Luis must have heard her, because he gave a grim chuckle. “Too many bodies for drawers,” he said. “We can get another row or two in with the racks. There are a lot of murders in Vegas.”
“Yeah, that’s starting to sink in.” She wondered if anyone here was Evil—on the one hand, they wouldn’t get much sustenance from a bunch of dead bodies, but the grief-stricken relatives and friends might make it worthwhile to get a job here.
Luis consulted a clipboard, then moved over to the column of slots three from the left side of the room and pulled out a stainless-steel tray. “How much do you need to see?” he asked. “Says here his throat was cut and his genital area was pretty much pulverized—it’s gonna be grim.”
“Just the top half is fine,” Jason said with a questioning glance toward Verity.
She nodded. She didn’t need to see the whole body to get what she hoped to find.
Luis undid the top part of the sheet and folded it down, then stepped back. “I have a couple things I need to take care of, so I’ll leave you here if that’s okay.” He pointed. “I’ll be right over there if you need me. Please don’t touch the body.”
Verity stared down at Gary Woods’s body. He didn’t much resemble the smiling, round-faced man from the photo anymore: his skin was gray and waxy, his cheeks sunken, and his closed eyes recessed into bruised hollows. A large, roughly-stitched Y incision bisected his chest. Her eye was immediately drawn to the wicked slash across his throat, opening up into a chasm so dark red it was almost black. For a moment she could do nothing but look at Gary in horror, forgetting even to shift to magical sight.
“V?” Jason said softly, touching her arm. “You okay?”
His words startled her back to awareness. “What? Oh. Yeah, sorry. He’s just so…” She waved her hands, unable to come up with the right words. Roper had been right about the beating: the body was covered from face to torso with bruises, their grotesque colors showing up clearly against the fishbelly white of his skin. Whoever had killed Gary had really worked him over—and she didn’t even want to think about what they’d done in the area the sheet still covered.
“Yeah. C’mon. Do whatever you came to do and let’s get out of here.”
She nodded, forcing herself to think clinically. This was a good time to channel Stone: don’t think of this as a man, a loving husband and father with two young daughters, but rather as a magical puzzle to solve.
It wasn’t so easy, though.
She closed her eyes, shifted, then opened them again.
The room lit up with auras—the workers, the general sense of despair and hopelessness, the faint energy around the bodies themselves. She stiffened at the overload, putting a hand to her head.
“V?”
“It’s okay. I got this. Just be quiet for a minute so I can concentrate.” She stepped in closer, using the techniques Stone had taught her to tighten her concentration until she’d blocked out everything but Gary’s body.
At first she didn’t see it, even then. He didn’t have an aura, obviously—dead bodies didn’t have auras—but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a lot of energy clinging to him. Murder victims, by their very nature, retained magical energy due to the strong emotions around their demise. But that wasn’t what she was looking for, which why it was so hard to spot it. She had to sift past the traces of pain and fear and violence, hoping she could still see—
There it was! She gripped the table and leaned in closer, trying to keep hold of the feeble shred of magic. It was like trying to trace a drop of ink in a pool—it kept shifting and floating away. But there was no doubt in her mind now—the same traces she’d sensed when she’d originally searched for Gary, when she’d examined the area around the dumpster at the Pussycat Club, and when she’d looked at David Ames’s suitcase also hovered around Gary’s body.
“You guys about done?” Luis had returned with his clipboard, glancing at his watch. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to—”
“It’s okay,” Jason said as Verity came up for air. “I think we’re good.”
“Yeah,” Verity said. “Yeah, we’re good. Thanks, Luis.”
Verity remained silent and deep in thought until they were back in the car.
“So, did you get anything?” Jason asked.
She didn’t answer right away.
“V?”
“I…it’s weird,” she said at last.
“Weird how?”
“Remember I said when I looked for him back at Edna’s, I got a sense of two different auras entwined with each other?”
“Yeah…but this guy can’t have an aura, right? I thought dead bodies didn’t.”
“They don’t. But…I got the same magical traces I got before. The ones I thought had to come from David—especially after I picked up the same energy around his suitcase at the Oasis.”
Jason looked confused. “I’m not following, V. What are you tryin’ to say?”
She let her breath out in a loud whoosh. “That’s just it—I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. The only thing that even sort of makes sense is just…crazy.”
“Let’s hear it anyway.”
“Well…I thought some more about what might cause auras to intertwine like that. I’ve never seen anything like it, and Edna says she hasn’t either. The only time I’ve heard of it is with a pregnant woman, but Gary obviously isn’t that.”
“So, what then?”
She shook her head. “If I didn’t know it was impossible, I’d almost say that Gary and David could have been the same person.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The rain was coming down hard as Stone trudged back to the winery, accompanied by the occasional jagged flash of lightning and rumbling thunderclap. The wind had picked up as well, blowing chilly droplets at him so hard that he was forced to narrow his eyes and lean into the gusts as he wen
t.
Nobody else was visible on the streets, though the lights were on in the trailer and the motorhome when he passed them. It took him nearly fifteen minutes to make the quarter-mile walk back to the winery (it would have been nice of Duncan to provide a tram or something, given the anticipated weather and the distance between the venues), and he was soaked through by the time he arrived. He tried not to think about the drive back down the hill if things kept up like this.
Denise smiled at him from the front desk when he shoved his way into the lobby. “You’re soaked!” she said, coming around toward him. “Come on—let’s get you out of that coat and you can sit by the fire and dry off. Would you like something to drink?”
Stone was in no mood to deal with her advances at the moment. “Thank you, Denise, but I’m fine. I just need to go back to my room for a while and get out of these wet things. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”
Her cheery smile slipped, replaced by a look of disappointment and…something else? Then the smile was back, sly and seductive this time. “Of course, Dr. Stone. Please do call if there’s…anything I can do.”
He ditched the umbrella and hurried off before she could change her mind, already pulling off his wet coat as he fumbled for his room key. It was a good thing he’d brought several sets of dry clothes. Right now, a hot shower sounded like just the thing. He shucked off his T-shirt and was about to toss it on the floor when he spotted the bed.
It had been neatly made—despite the lack of maid service—and arrayed near the pillow was a display of items including a bottle of wine with a fancy bow around its neck and a basket stocked with a pair of wineglasses, packages of cheeses and crackers, and two elegant cloth napkins. Propped against the basket were a box of chocolates and a bottle of the same single-malt Scotch Stone had ordered at the bar last night.
Around the neck of the Scotch bottle, a stiff white card had been tied with a bright blue ribbon. He leaned in to read the message, written in a bold, looping, feminine hand:
Dr. Stone (may I call you Alastair?),
Hoping to see more of you tonight…if you know what I mean. :)
Can’t wait,
You Know Who
For a moment, all he could do was stare. He glanced at the door, almost as if expecting her to come through uninvited—after all, she’d already entered his room once without his permission to leave her “gifts.” This had definitely moved beyond “charming” and was barreling down the road toward “creepy.” Not quite there yet—she might just be the overeager sort who’d spent too much time up here without much male company. But definitely headed in that direction.
He gathered up the items and moved them to the table next to the bed, then pulled some dry clothes from his bag (wondering with some unease if she’d rifled through it—not that he had anything to hide, since he’d left the ritual materials in the car, but still) and headed for the bathroom. Impulsively, he engaged the security chain on the room door before going in, images of a horny Denise barging in on him while he was in the shower flitting through his mind.
Though they weren’t entirely unpleasant images, he had to admit.
One long, hot shower and some dry clothes later, he was feeling much more charitable toward Denise and her clumsy efforts at seduction, though he’d also made up his mind that he didn’t intend to take her up on them. She was far too young for him, and her eagerness, while charming, only added to his reluctance.
That, and he had a curse to track down.
It was after four-thirty now, which meant he had a couple hours for his investigations. Unfortunately, with the rain coming down this hard he couldn’t explore around the town much, since he couldn’t show up for the night shoot drenched to the skin. He also hadn’t had anything to eat all day, which meant he also needed to allow time to grab something quick at the restaurant. Either that or partake of the bounty Denise had left him, but he didn’t feel right about that.
First, though, he wanted to check with Mortenson and see how she was coming with Yates’s box of papers. He crossed the hall and knocked on her door.
“Who is it?” came her voice from inside.
“It’s me. Wanted to see how things were going with the documents.”
“Just a moment.”
It was considerably longer than a moment before she finally opened the door. She still wore the same lounge outfit she’d had on earlier. “All done with your filming?” she asked.
Was he mistaken, or was the chill in her voice even worse than the usual professional coolness she expressed around him?
“They called it off for the afternoon,” he said. “Tempers were short and things sort of went to hell. I’ve got to be back before seven for the nighttime segment.”
“Well, then, by all means don’t let me keep you.” She turned and walked back into the room, though she didn’t close the door.
He tilted his head. “Is everything all right, Edwina?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
Since she hadn’t told him to leave, he followed her into the room. Every flat surface—the table, the dresser, even the bed—was covered with yellowing papers. The only clear spot was one of the table’s chairs; the open banker’s box perched on the other one, still about half full. On the table in front of the empty chair were Mortenson’s reading glasses, a magnifying lens, a yellow legal pad scrawled with notes, and a half-full glass of wine with an open bottle next to it. “You look like you’ve been busy.”
“Well, I haven’t had much else to do, have I?” She didn’t look at him, but lowered herself back into her chair. She didn’t ask him to sit down.
He sighed. Okay, it was going to be like that. “Listen—I don’t want to intrude, but I was wondering if you’ve found anything of interest yet about the curse.”
Her sigh was even louder than his. She tossed her pen on top of the pad. “Alastair, I’m not your research assistant. You don’t need to check up on me to see how I’m doing. I’ll let you know if I find anything, all right?”
“Hang on—where did that come from?” He stared at her. He certainly knew she resented certain things about him—it was hard to miss over the years—but this was new even for her.
“Look,” she said, glaring at him. “Why don’t you just go back up to your film shoot and keep impressing Mr. Duncan, and I’ll plod along here doing your grunt work. If you stop interrupting me by asking for progress reports, I’ll get through it faster.” She snatched up her glass and took a healthy slug of wine.
“Edwina—come on. It’s not like that. I thought you—”
“You thought,” she snapped, cutting him off. “When do you ever think about anyone but yourself, Alastair? Do you know what I think? I think you should go. I’ll get through the rest of these and get them back to you by tonight. If that’s acceptable, of course.”
Just like that, he’d had enough. “No,” he said. “It’s not acceptable. None of this is acceptable. You mind letting me in on what’s chapped your arse, Edwina? I haven’t done a bloody thing to justify speaking to me like that. I thought you’d find those records interesting, which is why I offered them to you. Gods know—and you would too, if you’d been paying a damn bit of attention to anything past your own jealousy—that I’d gladly trade places with you. Go on, then—you can slog through the mud and deal with Duncan and Riley and the rest of that collection of puffed-up tossers up there at the Brunder place, and I’ll sit here on my arse in a warm room drinking wine and reading through a stack of historical documents. Is that what you want? Because if it is, it’s all yours!” His voice rose as he spoke, but he did nothing to quiet it. He’d had just about enough of Edwina Mortenson and her passive-aggressive bullshit.
She stared at him, wide-eyed and red-faced. Her hands shook on the table. “Well, I might have been up there, if it hadn’t been for you
showing up. I’m still half-convinced you did it on purpose, despite all your denials. You always have to be the center of attention, don’t you? You’re not happy unless everybody’s looking at you, telling you how good you are, how brilliant you are, how much they admire you! Don’t think I don’t notice it!”
She slammed her hands down on the table and took a couple deep breaths, blowing them out loudly. “Just get out, Alastair. Go away. I told you I’d do this, and I will. I keep my word. You go show off some more in front of the cameras, and then you can come back and spend the rest of the night rutting with that bimbo at the front desk.”
“What…the hell?” Stone wasn’t often at a loss for words, but this was an exception. “You actually think I—”
She snorted—an ugly, nasty sound. “Don’t lie, Alastair. I saw her bringing her little gift basket by your room a couple of hours ago.” Her tone dripped with contempt. “You’ll sleep with any pretty young thing who shows any interest in you, don’t think I don’t know it. The whole department knows it. Mac’s wife told me once that they found you all over that woman you were seeing last year—what was her name? Destiny? Deirdre?—at the fundraiser at the Rosicrucian.” She shook her head. “What ever happened to her, anyway? Did you toss her aside like all the rest of them when she wised up and stopped falling for your accent?”
At the mention of Deirdre, a tide of rage and grief rose inside Stone. How dare she bring up Deirdre? He clenched his fists, barely aware he was doing it, and somewhere within him he felt magical energy growing. “If you ever mention Deirdre again, Edwina—”
“You’ll what?” She stood, her own fists clenched, though her voice shook hard. “You’ll what, Alastair? You’ll hurt me? I didn’t think you had that in you, but if you lay a finger on me, I’ll see you in handcuffs so fast you won’t know what happened. Maybe they’ll ship you back to England where you belong, and I can finally—what?”
